The Senses Of Reality
by Setep Ka Tawy
Summary: It's the night of Sherlock's return. John seems to be having a bit of trouble accepting the idea that the detective is actually back, but Sherlock doesn't realise how much - until John takes it into his head to spend the night in Sherlock's room. /Not/ slash, only deep and slightly awkward friendship. Post-Reichenbach.


******Author's Note:** Quite a few people have been hinting that I should write some lighter-minded fics, rather than the angsty depressed ones I've been coming up with lately. I'm not sure if this falls precisely into that category, but I certainly wouldn't call it depressing.

I'm adamantly opposed to the idea that Sherlock and John could or would ever have a romantic relationship, so it's kind of interesting to play around with something like John creeping into Sherlock's room (and bed) just as a friend in need of reassurance. So, sorry, Johnlock shippers - I can't make you take off the slash goggles, of course, but I /can/ assure you that such was not the intent on the part of yours truly.

The story kind of wrote itself an ending while my back was turned. I'm toying with the idea of adding a part two to this, probably taking place the next morning and incorporating more humour revolving around the strange situation at hand. I still have some bits and pieces of ideas that just didn't fit into what this story turned out to be, on its own. So, feedback regarding this would be very much appreciated.

Enjoy!

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**The Senses Of Reality**

It was good to be home.

That was the thought uppermost in the mind of Sherlock Holmes as he stretched out comfortably on his back, arms neatly folded behind his head, his interlocking fingers pressed between his dark hair and the pale-sheeted pillow. The blue-grey shadows of nighttime lay like a veil over his room, hiding the dust-covered surfaces from his wandering eyes. The fact that he couldn't make out much in the way of detail didn't stop him from lazily trying to do so anyway; from where he lay, his unhurried gaze drifted in a half-circle around the room. It was a comfort sort of thing, he admitted to himself. He was instinctively re-establishing his presence here, re-acclimating himself to the familiar surroundings from which he had been distanced for so long.

He stretched his neck absently, shifting around to smooth away a few of the wrinkles contrasting between the sheets. His fingers flexed away a bit of the numbness that had begun to creep through them in response to the weight of his head. He didn't usually enjoy the process of relaxation that inevitably had to come before sleep – he would much rather have preferred to go out between one blink and the next, and not waste any time in the twilight transition between consciousness and slumber. But this, he justified to himself, was a special occasion of sorts. Just this once, he was going to savour the feeling of falling asleep in his own bed, in his own room, in –

Well, he couldn't really say "his own flat", but the concept was approximately the same. It was _their_ own flat, and it was home.

There was a weighty sense of relief in the air as well, now that Sherlock had gotten the most difficult part over with. That was, of course, actually coming back, and all the implications contained therein. John had reacted no less violently than the detective had anticipated, with a really astonishing range of emotions all twisted together in the space of about half an hour. Sherlock hadn't at all enjoyed that part of it, not the least because he knew that he thoroughly deserved every word of John's tirade, from angry to acidic and all the way around to breathlessly disbelieving. And even after the doctor had literally exhausted himself to the point of half-collapsing against the sofa, Sherlock couldn't help but feel that he had still been let off lightly.

More would come, though – he knew that already, and had resigned himself to it. This was the period in which John would have to come to grips with the reality of the situation, and once he did, his second wind was sure to follow. Sherlock was still wondering when the point would arrive when words were not enough. He wasn't exactly looking forward to it – John had already demonstrated on several occasions that his hands were capable of considerable force.

Ah well. Better that John got it all out in a relatively short span of time, and cleared the air as much has possible at the outset. Sherlock wasn't terribly in tune with emotions, but even he wasn't obtuse enough to think that a snap of the fingers and some hoarse shouting would be all it took to reconcile past and present. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and settled back into a kind of light semi-consciousness.

It was only a short time later when a barely audible step in the hallway brought him back to full alertness. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment and shifted slightly onto one side, his eyes blank while his ears took over the business of concentrating. An unseen frown creased his features in the soft darkness. His first thought had been, quite logically, that John was merely headed for the bathroom, but half a second later he had dismissed the idea. John normally had quite a heavy tread, even unshod. Yet the creak was all Sherlock had heard thus far, and that fact puzzled him. It appeared as though John was _trying_ to be quiet, and he couldn't for the life of him see the need for such caution on something as mundane as a bathroom run. Sherlock could only conclude that his friend was, for whatever reason, trying to creep his way into the bedroom here.

This was confirmed a moment later when the door cracked quietly open. In the silence that followed Sherlock picked up the sound of John's slightly heavy breathing, as though the other man was trying to exhale inaudibly but not really doing a good job of it. The detective lay still, closing his eyes lightly again in feigned sleep. It was something at which he was particularly talented. He rarely moved around in his sleep, so he knew what sort of prone position would be most natural; he could easily control his breathing, slowing the rate of his respirations; and he had perfected that slight tightening behind his eyes that dispelled the need for blinking, which otherwise would have given away his fakery.

Sherlock heard the door click back into its frame, and then sensed more than felt as John took a few hesitant steps towards him. Several long moments eased by in which John just stood there, and Sherlock found himself growing increasingly confused behind his mask of serene unconsciousness. John was obviously here for a reason, but didn't seem in any hurry to get on with explaining himself. Sherlock fervently hoped that the other man wasn't going to just stand there all night; though, the fact that he had closed the door behind him seemed to indicate an intention to remain for longer than a few minutes. The detective bit back an exasperated sigh and continued his limp charade. He could have spoken, of course, but doing so would have alerted John to his being awake, and he really was terribly curious about what the other was doing here when he thought that Sherlock was asleep.

Then he felt a light touch on his shoulder, barely a brush of tentative fingertips, so delicate that if his senses hadn't been so focused it might not even have registered. His immediate reaction was one of surprise, which shortly gave way to quiet realisation as John's hand molded over the curve of his shoulder – not gripping, merely resting there. Of course, thought Sherlock. John was still uncertain, still not quite allowing himself to believe that his friend had suddenly returned from the apparent dead. In the doctor's mind, it would only make sense to come in and check, to make sure that Sherlock was really, solidly present.

The warmth of John's hand seeping through the fabric of Sherlock's shirt faded suddenly as the doctor drew away again, leaving his shoulder feeling cold and exposed. Still, he didn't move. He could at least respect his friend's need for a semblance of privacy in this moment; he would let John leave thinking that he knew nothing of the other's visit. Breathing slowly and regularly, he waited for the door to open and then close, indicating that John had left in the wake of successful self-assurance.

But the door remained firmly where it was, and more importantly, John had managed to disappear from Sherlock's auditory radar. He experienced a couple seconds of recurring confusion, and then opened his eyes very slightly in an attempt to relocate his flatmate – at the same moment that the left side of the bed suddenly sank down under the weight of a certain ex-army doctor.

Sherlock went very still, blinked, felt his eyes widen, felt his brows draw together, and blinked again. When that surprised pause failed to accomplish anything of note, he decided to drop his pretense of being asleep, and immediately rolled over onto his back. He twisted his head to one side and regarded his friend. John was facing him, looking as though he had tried for a fetal position and had only got part of the way through it before losing energy. Sherlock could hardly make out his features, as John's face was half-buried in the pillow.

"John," Sherlock asked him, very quietly, "what are you doing?"

He saw John tense at the question, but otherwise the other man didn't move. "Lying in your bed," came the muffled response, clearly with great reluctance.

"Yes," said Sherlock patiently, "I can see that. Why?"

There was an even longer pause this time, so much that Sherlock had almost opened his mouth to repeat the question. "Let's just leave it at that, okay? Good night."

"What?" Sherlock levered himself up onto his elbows, though continuing to stare hard at his friend. "You're – planning on staying here, are you?" He was beginning to feel distinctly wrong-footed now.

"Is that okay?"

Sherlock detected something almost desperate in the way that John uttered those few words, as though his very life depended on the other man's answer to such a simple question. "I –" He broke off almost immediately, frowning, eyeing John's half-huddled form. He exhaled slowly, then went on, "It's – yes, of course. It's – fine. Goodnight."

It wasn't, of course. He considered this unexpected twist of events as he settled onto his back again. Applying the usual connotations of the situation seemed ludicrous when held under the scope of his relationship with John. That couldn't be it. He only supposed that John wasn't bearing up under the strain of his return as well as he had hoped. Sherlock shook his head mentally. He had been taken by surprise, but really, he didn't care all that much if John was there.

He could only assume that he had actually drifted off to sleep at some point, because there was a definite sense of the passage of time when he next considered his surroundings. For a moment, he wondered what had caused his return to alertness. Then his senses caught up with his brain, and he realised that it was due to his impromptu bedmate. John's face was pressed up against his shoulder, and judging from his gasping breaths and trembling form, the doctor was in a good deal of emotional distress.

As before, Sherlock did not immediately hint that he was awake; though he doubted whether it really mattered to John at this point. After a few moments, however, he felt obliged to at least make an attempt to comfort his friend. He didn't particularly like seeing John this way, especially when a good deal of the cause behind the distress was his fault.

Unconsciously mirroring his flatmate's earlier actions, Sherlock touched a gentle hand to John's shoulder. "What's wrong?" he asked softly, despite having a fairly certain idea of the answer already.

John appeared to struggle with the words for a minute before forcing them out in a frayed, indistinct line. "I just can't – believe –" He sucked in a loud breath before going on falteringly, "Are you – are you really – here, Sherlock?"

"Of course I am," replied Sherlock, keeping his tone calm and reasonable for John's benefit. "Right here."

"But – how can I be sure?"

In the silence that followed, Sherlock struggled to come up with a satisfactory answer. A whole host of options presented themselves, most of them logical and obvious. But he was getting the feeling that if all it took was logic to convince John that reality was as it seemed, they wouldn't be having this problem in the first place.

He was distracted, then, by the slow inching of John's hand towards his own underneath the blankets. Then he corrected himself. It wasn't his hand that John was fumbling for – it was his wrist. With the faintest of smiles now on his lips, Sherlock carefully turned his arm over so that John could reach the softer skin below his palm. For a moment, all he felt was the other man's slightly trembling fingers pressed against the inside of his wrist.

"Can you feel my pulse?" he asked lightly.

John nodded against Sherlock's shoulder, whispering, "Yes." Without warning, his hand moved to clutch at his friend's chest, and then he laid his head next to it, as though afraid that if he didn't hold on, the detective would simply melt away into nothingness.

Sherlock stiffened only slightly when he felt the weight of his friend's head. He turned his eyes away from the tousled hair now inches from his face, instead looking up at the ceiling. Very deliberately, he inhaled, then exhaled, then inhaled again, exaggerating the slow rise and fall of his chest.

"Can you feel me breathing?"

"Yes," John murmured again, though the word became tangled in Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock nodded slightly in approval. He seemed to be getting through to John with this strange melding of logic and emotion and physical sensation. The other man appeared to be calming somewhat, comforted by the sense of the detective so near to him. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, and the stillness seemed to be complimented rather than broken by the rhythm of life within his chest.

He asked softly, "Can you hear my heart?"

John didn't actually answer this time, only nodded very quickly. His fingers dug briefly into Sherlock's chest again, but other than that he seemed disinclined to move. Sherlock did hope that the other wasn't entertaining the notion of lulling himself back to sleep to the sound of his strongly beating heart.

"That's fairly substantial evidence that I'm here, then, isn't it?" The question was a rhetorical one, but Sherlock felt that having established his presence as a reality, John should probably be nudged back towards some sort of self-control. Under the present circumstances, the detective didn't exactly balk at his friend's clinging, but it wasn't the sort of thing to be encouraged.

"Come on." As gently as he could while still being firm about it, Sherlock awkwardly shifted John back onto the other side of the bed. John made no resistance, but he didn't really do anything to help, either. "Go back to sleep," Sherlock advised him, as he stretched his upper body briefly to rid it of the feeling of John's rather heavy head.

The doctor looked uncertain at that, and he met Sherlock's eyes with obvious reluctance. "Promise me you won't go anywhere?"

Sherlock let out a short sigh. "Where would I go, John – bathroom aside?" He glanced around pointedly. "It's _my_ bed, remember?"

John's lips twitched into a bare, tired smile. "I did notice," he admitted. Sherlock could tell that he still wasn't entirely convinced, but seemed to have lost the energy needed to pursue the matter any further.

"I certainly hope so," he muttered, "otherwise we would have a problem." He turned onto his side again, away from John, trying to ignore the strange feeling of having someone else in his bed. "Good night."

No response. He waited.

"John?"

Sherlock twisted slightly to peer over his shoulder. John was lying almost fully on his stomach now, nearly intruding on Sherlock's side of the bed with one hand half-wedged beneath the detective's pillow. He was quite clearly out to the world.

Sherlock turned his eyes to the ceiling for a moment before letting out a short sigh and sitting up fully. He regarded his flatmate for a minute or so, contemplating the pros and cons of shaking the other man awake and pointing him firmly in the direction of his own room. He had to admit, it didn't really seem worth the effort. Resigning himself, he reached over and flicked the blankets carelessly over John's slumbering form. Then he lay back and closed his eyes. A moment later, a faint but genuine smile touched his face.

Welcome home.

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Reviews are terribly appreciated. I'd really like to know if you readers think I should continue this.


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